Invoking Entropy
by bite-or-avoid
Summary: That is so not how that was supposed to go. *Spoilers* for Season 5 promos. B/B


**Title**: Invoking Entropy

**Author**: Anna (bite_or_avoid)  
**Pairing**: Booth/Brennan**  
****Rating**: PG  
**Word Count**: 1,571  
**Disclaimer**: All I own is student debt  
**Spoilers**: Season 5 promo. The one with the OMG, and the OH NOES, and *facepalm*

* * *

That is so _not_ how that was supposed to go.

One minute they're standing there, having a 'moment', which happens all the time really, and it's nice, because they're finally back to normal after all the craziness and discomfort of the last few weeks, and he feels happy and it makes him forget all the things they don't say, shouldn't ever say to each other. And then it sort of just slips out, and she makes that face – _oh God, that face_ – and he feels like a cornered animal, and he has to backpedal.

It's like a sharp suit you grab on impulse, and then go to try it on and it's loose in all the wrong places, tight in all the wrong places, and you're doubly disappointed because you really thought it was just the thing, exactly what you needed, but instead it's just all kinds of wrong. And you go to take it back to the store, but they tell you "We're sorry sir. That item was on final sale."

So there it is.

No changies. No takebacks.

_I love you._

_In a professional, you know, 'atta girl kinda way. _

It doesn't matter that he arm-tapped her like an old army buddy (or a twelve-year-old. Seriously, who _does_ that?), or that she arm-tapped him back in that adorable way. She may as well have sucker-punched him in the gut.

Because the moment the words left his mouth, the moment they were out there in the universe, his own heart confirmed them.

Now, there can be no doubt as to the statement's absolute and undeniable truth.

That's not the worst part.

Even before, when he had only a vague notion of what they are to each other, he could swear she felt it too. Wanted it too. He thought, _someday. Eventually. _

Now, he knows better.

That expression, that disbelieving, uncomprehending horror distorting her delicate features is all the refutation he needs to understand that _someday_ will never come.

***

She hasn't handled change well since she was fifteen. She's handled surprises even worse. So is it really any wonder that when Booth drops a bombshell that has the potential to turn her world upside-down, she panics? He looks at her with such intensity, such conviction, and says _those words_, and she feels the simultaneous pangs of excitement and fear, but she's not really sure she heard him correctly or understood him correctly, because, after all, she misunderstands his euphemisms all the time. And she's just about to ask him what he means by that, but he doesn't even give her the chance. He qualifies the statement, and she's doubly disappointed, because she doesn't know which one she _wants _him to have meant.

It's like a set of remains you're sure you have all figured out, and then go about proving your theory to find that it just doesn't _fit_ the evidence, and whereas you thought there was nothing to this that could surprise you, you are proven wrong. And you really hate that, because you're never wrong, or nearly never in any case, but the evidence doesn't lie.

So there it is.

No changies. No takebacks.

_I love you._

_In a professional, you know, 'atta girl kinda way. _

It doesn't matter that he tapped her on the arm like a friend, or that she tapped him back while her mind was spinning. He may as well have hit her over the head with something blunt and heavy.

Because the moment the words left his mouth, the moment they were out there in the universe, she started to wonder.

Now, she can't stop.

***

Things aren't quite the same after that. They're not quite different either, but there is a tenuous calm stretching between them. The effortless camaraderie they share is laced with an uncertainty that was never there before, as if each is no longer sure where they stand with the other. It feels like they are both waiting for something.

Waiting for something to break.

Waiting for something to make sense.

Time passes them by in fleeting moments and furtive glances.

It has run out for the continuous array of unfortunates displayed on her steel platform.

But they are still waiting, as if the minutes trickling away mean nothing at all.

***

He's on drink number four when the realization dawns that Vicodin and alcohol don't really mix, but by then it's too late. Honestly, he doesn't even remember taking the damn things. But, somewhere between waking up on Bones' office couch with his back stiff as a board and making a mad dash for the bathroom upon realizing that parts _other_ than his back were stiff as a board (because, really, the whole place smells like her and there's only so much a guy can take, right?), he must have popped a pill. Or two. He really can't remember just now, and that's a shame because that knowledge would have been quite useful two or three drinks back. But as it stands… well, he's not sure he _can_ stand right about now.

Bones can stand though.

Boy, oh boy, can Bones stand.

She leans over his shoulder, hair tickling his neck, breast brushing against his arm. He grips his glass tighter.

"I'm sorry I'm late. The spectral analysis took longer than anticipated because Hodgins is still suffering some diplopia from his experiment to…. What?"

"It's fine, Bones. I'm used to waiting for you by now."

Whoa. He's not sure that came out the way he meant it. Or maybe it came out exactly the way he meant it, and that's why she's got that look on her face again…

Her gaze flickers to the single malt still clutched in his hands.

"How many of those have you had, Booth?"

Too many. Not enough.

"A couple. Come on, Bones, take a load off."

She takes the seat beside his, still eyeing him warily. He chuckles.

"What? Do I have something on my face?"

She turns away, ordering a beer. They're both silent. Uncomfortably so. Normally, he takes control in these situations, initiating the flow of conversation. But he's too busy trying to keep the room from spinning to initiate anything.

"I've been thinking about what you said."

He startles.

"Huh?"

"A few months ago. The Fargood case?"

Oh. That.

The thing.

The thing with the inappropriate words and the facepalming.

He was really hoping she'd never mention that.

"I say lots of stuff, Bones. Didn't think you actually listened to half of it."

She looks almost offended.

"I have a great deal of interest in everything you say, Booth. I may not always respond the way you'd like, but –"

"What are we talkin' about here?"

"You've been acting strangely. Ever since the night you said you loved me."

He nearly chokes on his scotch.

"I said it in a completely professional way."

"Completely."

"Like, a partner. A friend."

"Of course."

"And, anyway, it's just something you say."

God, he needs to stop talking.

She bites her lower lip, and looks him right in the eyes.

"I disagree, Booth. It's not just something _you_ say."

There's a question in there somewhere, he's sure. What he's not sure about is if the answer will wreck them.

They shouldn't be talking about this right now.

"You know what Bones? I think I need some air."

The alarm that darkens her expression makes his stomach clench.

"Are you--"

"I'm fine. Really. I just..." He flashes a sheepish smile. "I think maybe that last scotch didn't go down so well."

He makes his way out of the bar on rubbery legs before she can say anything else. Outside in the fresh air, he paces. Tries to get the blood flowing to his brain. Tries to clamp down the emotions he's sworn he wouldn't let get the best of him again. He's spent so much time denying what he feels for her, on some level has always felt for her, that continuing to deny it shouldn't be too hard, right?

He thinks he's regained some semblance of control. He turns, and there she is. Watching him.

"I didn't mean to upset you, Booth."

"Bones –"

"I think you have sufficiently cleared up any misunderstanding. We needn't discuss it again."

Any pretense of restraint abandons him with the weight of her words. What the hell is he doing?

He can't leave it like this.

They're standing in the same spot as That Night, and the fall air feels crisp and refreshing in his lungs, and she's looking at him in that vulnerable way she has like she needs him to make everything OK, and he doesn't know if it's the booze or the Vicodin, or maybe a bit of both, but, God help him, he wants to say it again.

Instead he says:

"I've been waiting for you."

Her eyes widen in that disbelieving, uncomprehending horror he's intimately familiar with, but she doesn't back away. This time, neither does he.

"Do you know what that means, Bones?"

There is a glow infusing her cheeks, and a warm ache spreads through his chest. She has always understood him a lot more than she gives herself credit for.

They've been standing on the precipice of this for far too long.

She steps forward, putting her arms around his neck.

"No changies?" she whispers, breath ghosting against the sensitized flesh.

"No takebacks," he says, and holds her tighter.

_Fin._


End file.
